


ad infinitum

by acemartinblackwood (semnai)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post MAG159, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semnai/pseuds/acemartinblackwood
Summary: Although Martin and Jon are finally together, Martin's still healing. Featuring Martin reciting poetry, knock-knock it's self-deprecation, and kissing. A whole lot of kissing.A short, soft interlude post-159, pre-160.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 29
Kudos: 312





	ad infinitum

**ad infinitum:** again and again in the same way, forever

\---

Martin lays on the well-worn living room couch, head propped up on a pillow, his curls tousled from sleep. His eyes are fixed on Jon, who’s laying over Martin like a blanket. Jon snores softly as Martin, brow furrowed in concentration, traces letters on Jon’s back with feather-light touches.

Over several minutes, Martin watches how Jon slowly wakes: Jon’s breathing changes, deep breaths stuttering to something lighter, quicker; he shifts slightly, fingers clutching the soft wool of Martin’s jumper clench and then uncurl; his eyelashes flutter and his eyes scrunch before his brow furrows. The quiet intimacy of all of this is heavy in Martin’s chest, another moment he gently tucks away for darker times he knows must be on the horizon.

At the same time, Martin wrestles down sharp, piercing feelings of inadequacy ( _that he’ll never be good enough for Jon, that he doesn’t deserve to see Jon this unguarded_ ) because he can hear Jon fiercely telling him he’s perfect, as Jon’s said every time he’s even began to question self-worth in the past week. He wants to think its an aftereffect of the Lonely, but he hears it in his mum’s voice, in Elias’ voice, and he knows its deeper than that. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but he’ll protect it with everything he’s got.

Jon hums slightly, before mumbling Martin’s name and finally opening his eyes. Martin’s hand stills. Jon looks up towards Martin, his chin resting on Martin’s upper chest, blinking slowly, groggily, before bringing a hand up to Martin’s face to rest his palm on Martin’s cheek. Jon’s warm and Martin momentarily closes his eyes, savoring the heat against his skin.

“What were you doing?” Jon asks, his voice deeper and rougher than normal, heavy with sleep. Martin just barely holds back a shiver as he frowns slightly at Jon’s question, bemused.

Jon’s eyes catch Martin’s frown, and frowns in turn. Martin’s hands itch to smooth it from his face. Jon stumbles to clarify, “I mean—sorry—your hands – on my back. It felt like you were drawing something, maybe?”

“Oh.” Martin shifts slightly; he can feel his cheeks warm as he glances away from Jon.

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“Hm. Well. I was—I was writing? They were letters. Words.” Martin pulls a hand back to rub his neck.

Jon’s face softens and suddenly the vulnerability Martin feels becomes stifling and he has to viciously stamp down on a sudden impulse to disappear entirely. He’s been working on that, too.

“Writing?” Jon says, voice raw with what Martin’s started to recognize as hope. Or love. Really, he’s discovered in the past year how much they really, truly are the same.

“Yeah,” Martin says, and it feels like a confession. He swallows. “You know, hm. A poem.”

Jon’s eyes shine, his thumb stroking Martin’s cheek. “One of your own? I’d—I’d love to hear it.”

As Jon looks on expectantly, Martin shifts under his attention. “You don’t--” Martin stops, uncomfortable. He tries again, “You’ve never--” He sighs, his shoulders dropping in defeat. “Do you—do you really want to hear it?” He remembers an old tape he listened to once, of Jon dismissing his writing, but he also remembers after Jon woke up, of his poetry being one of the first things he asked about.

“I would,” Jon says softly, biting his lip. Eyes widening slightly, he says in a rush, “Of-course-you-don’t-have-to,” and then taking a breath, he winces. “Do you want to know why I want to though?”

“Why, Jon?”

“Because it's… something you’ve created, and I think that’s beautiful. Because it—it means a lot to you, so it's important to me. Because… its yours, it's you.” Jon closes and opens his mouth, his determination and frustration evident from his expression, clearly struggling to find the right words.

After several seconds of watching him flounder, Martin decides to relieve him of the effort. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

Jon scrutinizes him, almost critically, like he did back when Martin was just an archival assistant. “Do you?”

Martin tries to not look away. “Well, I’m trying to. I’m—I’m trying.”

Jon softens, in the way Martin is still getting used to seeing, but thinks he could never tire of. “I know you are,” Jon murmurs gently. After a short pause, he tries again. “Like I said, I’d love to hear what you’ve composed. Or whatever you wanted to share. If you don’t want to share anything, that’s okay too.”

Martin considers him for a moment before giving a slight nod. “Fine, but,” he adds quickly as Jon’s whole face brightens, “only a verse or two. I can’t remember much of what I was writing anyway.”

Jon brings his arms up on Martin’s chest to rest his chin on, so he’s now level with Martin’s face. Martin closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s attentive gaze, knowing it will make this easier. Taking a deep breath, Martin recites sotto voce:

With you and without you I

cannot breathe. 

One is all bitter, biting cold, sharp

Claws tearing into my chest

But I could not feel a thing, I just knew

my heart was gone.

I tried to have faith that

It had found you when 

I could not.

The other is like coming home

for the first time in forever.

Maybe I’ve never been home before,

until now, for what I saw,

a blinding brilliance, warmth, calling to me like a beacon. You

steal the air from my lungs, bring a smile to my lips,

and thaw the frost in my chest.

Martin chances a peek at Jon after he finishes, sees tears in Jon's eyes, and immediately hides his reddening face behind his hands.  
  


"Martin," Jon whispers. And Martin feels Jon's hand on top of his, not pulling his hands away from his face, but just there, like support. Like acceptance. Martin doesn't know what to do with that.

"Thank you for sharing the poem with me." Jon's words are laced in warm adoration, and Martin knows if he opens his eyes, he'll see that same warm adoration writ across Jon's face. "It was… lovely. Perfect."

Martin can't help it, its nearly instinct: he laughs, a self-deprecating thing, which comes out a little muffled from his hands. His hands drop, though he keeps holding one of Jon's, and gives Jon sardonic smile. "Please, Jon. It was _far_ from perfect."

Jon's brow furrows, his hand squeezes Martin's, and his eyes flash with conviction. "Martin," Jon says, with a hint of a warning.

Martin sighs, his shoulders slumping. His stubbornness melts away so easily for Jon sometimes; there isn't anything he wouldn't do for him. "Fine. Thank you. Though, I still… I still…" Martin swallows, an apologetic look in his eyes. "Sorry."

"Martin, do you trust me?"

Martin rolls his eyes. "Yes, of course Jon." 

Martin’s hands instinctively fall back to Jon’s waist to steady Jon as Jon pushes himself closer to Martin’s face, their lips now mere millimeters apart. 

"Then trust me when I say this: It. Was. Perfect. And gorgeous and beautiful and I loved it. Like I love you." And before Martin can respond, Jon tenderly kisses Martin. After lingering a moment in the kiss, Jon pulls back slightly, his eyes scrunched in concentration. 

“What?” Martin asks, trying to hold back a laugh. 

“That wasn’t right. I messed up.”

“What do you mean you m--?”

Jon cuts off Martin by placing another kiss on Martin’s lips. 

“It seemed like a pretty good kiss to me?” Martin says, high pitched, a giggle escaping his lips.

Jon leans back a little, eyeing Martin critically again, like an artist at their painting. He shakes his head. "I can do better." And he leans back down to kiss Martin again, this time his tongue slipping into Martin's mouth. Martin exhales and relaxes into the kiss, bringing his tongue to meet Jon's, and humming in delight. But all too soon, Jon pulls back again. 

"No, no. That won't do," Jon says dismissively. Martin definitely could now pick out the mischievous glint in Jon's eye.

" _Jon_ ," Martin says, exasperated, fond.

" _Martin_. You deserve the best."

"You are--oompf," Martin manages before Jon is kissing him again. And again Jon pulls back prematurely. "Let me guess, still not right?"

"Guess I need to keep trying."

"And trying, and trying, and trying?"

Jon, grinning, answers with another kiss.

As Jon leans back again, Martin drinks in Jon in this moment: his playful smirk, how he's looking at Martin through his long, dark eyelashes, how his hair frames his face, how relaxed and happy he is.

"You know, I don't think I mind," Martin says, and pulls Jon back in for one more (and another and another and another and another, ad infinitum) kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I have Jon complement my poetry? MAYBE SO.
> 
> Kudos and comments are love!!
> 
> You can find me at [acemartinblackwood](https://www.acemartinblackwood.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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